


“It’s Swell Though They Tell Me I’m Maladjusted!"

by katrinawritesstuff



Category: Little Shop of Horrors (1986)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Graphic Violence, animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinawritesstuff/pseuds/katrinawritesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the twisted mind of Orin Scrivello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“It’s Swell Though They Tell Me I’m Maladjusted!"

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I feel that when writing from a first-person perspective for this type of character, a disclaimer is necessary: I DO NOT condone or identify with the mindset described in this piece. AT ALL. I found this pretty disturbing to write. It'll doubtless be disturbing to read, too. There is also some content, such as animal cruelty and mentions of rape, that you might find uncomfortable or distressing. If you find this too disturbing, please trust your judgement and don't read this piece. It's not particularly graphic-actually, it isn't graphic at all-but I feel it's best to give you a heads-up anyway. Cheers.

I’ve been labelled a sociopath, and that term, while somewhat reductive, is perfectly swell by me. The way I figure it, there are two kinds of people in this world: The Strong and The Weak. In the animal world there are predators and prey, and anyone who thinks the human social jungle isn’t organised in similarly stark terms is fucking delusional.

I’ve been a predator all my life. I believe this was less a conscious choice than a divine right. I believe it is natural to simply take what’s mine, to dominate others, and to rule. And should someone be so foolish as to question the laws that govern my universe, I will only to gladly show that someone _their_ position in the hierarchy—by force if necessary. The ‘if necessary’ part is a crucial addendum; I vastly prefer to put a more uppity guy or gal in their place through more, shall we say, ‘covert’ methods: subtly undermining their confidence in their own abilities. Sowing the seeds of doubt in regards to a health problem, a mysterious neighbour, a partner’s fidelity. Sure, inflicting _physical_ pain is good for nyuks—I am a dentist, aren’t I?—but it’s not always possible outside my work environment, and can sometimes be far more hassle than it’s worth. Besides, it’s the psycho-sexual stuff that really gets my rocks off. 

Of course, the use of force against an adversary can be both necessary and gratifying. But I prefer to employ this method in more ‘intimate’ situations (the fellas know what I’m talking about! Heh heh). 

My Ma knew I wasn’t quite right in the head at age nine. Well, to be honest, I think she kinda sensed something was amiss in me much earlier, and this incident merely served to confirm her hunch. She’d recently bought me a kitten for my 9th birthday—real cute little thing, stripy orange coat, thick candy-floss tail, wide green saucer eyes that stared at me plaintively, unassumingly—and I decided this fluffy little critter was the ideal test subject for an experiment I had in mind. 

I took the kitten into my bedroom and closed the door. I laid it atop my bedspread and watched as it kneaded the coverlet with its tiny paws, stretching itself out and trying to get comfortable. I gazed down at it speculatively, wondering how long it would take for it to perform this instinctual ritual. It gazed back at me and mewed plainly as if in reply to my unvoiced question. A courteous response? A sharp rebuke? I didn’t care much. I was impatient to perform my experiment. 

I grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck and dragged it roughly up toward the head of my bed. I proceeded to seize the thing around its middle and hold it so that it was lying down sideways on the bed, my hand tightly encircling its body so it wouldn’t move or struggle. The sweet feel of new-kitten fur was soft against my palm. Then I snatched up the pillow, raised it above my head, and brought it swiftly down on the ball of fur.

You might be interested to know that a young kitten can survive for approximately thirty-five seconds without oxygen. I held the pillow on top of it for five seconds; then ten; then fifteen; I went up in multiples of five. After each interval, I’d remove the pillow and inspect the critter. The thing was alive if oxygen-deprived; it moved and twitched against my hand. By twenty-five and thirty, it had ceased its thrashing and struggling, but its small chest continued to rise and fall. After thirty-five, everything changed. After thirty-five there was no struggling. No wheezing. No tiny, irregular heartbeat. All signs of life had been extinguished. Thirty-five was the magic number.

I picked the thing up by the tail and tossed it in my wastepaper basket. Then I headed off to give my new BB gun a test whirl ’round the neighbourhood. It was a nice sunny day outside; I figured that hey, I’ve already played with the kitten, haven’t I? Might as well enjoy my other presents now too!

My Ma found the kitten later when she’d been cleaning up my room. She looked so stricken when she confronted me, her face all pale and ashen. She asked me what had happened. Now, even as a not-very-self-aware kid, I knew that most folks in our emotion-centric society would frown on my little experiment, that my Mama and others like her wouldn’t view it as a strictly academic exercise the way I did. So I lied and told her I was playing ‘Peek-A-Boo’ with the kitten in my toy chest, but that the lock had snapped shut and I couldn’t find the key. It was a plausible enough story—I was always losing the key to my toy chest—but I knew by her look that she didn’t believe me. Aah, bless her heart. My Ma knew what I was and loved me anyway. 

Empaths. They’re funny like that.

But like her son, my Ma was a smart woman. She recognised my intimidating intelligence and preternatural gift for wielding power over lesser creatures early, and encouraged me to make the most of my talents. I’ll never forget the conversation we had late one night when I was ten. I was in the lounge watching some movie on television. Since it wasn’t a school night, I was up later than usual; it was around ten o’clock, and though I typically went to bed at eight-thirty, I hadn’t been able to get any shut-eye. And so I crept downstairs and ventured out into the lounge, in search of something mindless and corny on the tube to anaesthetise my tired brain.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and idly flipped through the channels. A nature documentary. A news report about the homeless. An infomercial spruiking some newfangled cleaning product. Ho-hum. 

Then I stumbled upon something that actually held my interest. I don’t know whether it was a movie or a T.V. series or what, but the gist was that a catburglar had just broken into the home of this newlywed couple. He had accidentally woken them up and was now herding them out into their kitchen at gunpoint. Now _this_ was something. I leaned forward eagerly, transfixed.

The catburglar ordered the couple to lean over the breakfast bar and place their hands and arms flat on the marble countertop. He then proceeded to bind their hands behind their backs with a length of rope tied tightly around their wrists; first the husband, then the wife. Then, in a tone that clearly indicated that this wasn’t a guy you wanna fuck with, the catburglar told the couple that he was now going to take the money they kept in a jar in their china hutch. One wrong move, and he’d do something extraordinarily unpleasant.

I remember thinking: _‘Wrong move! Wrong move! Go on, ya chumps! Upset the bastard! Let’s see what he does to ya.’_ Before this moment, I’d rarely wished for anything more strongly.

Whaddya know: Sometimes, wishes really do come true. 

Sure enough, the chump husband tried to surreptitiously make his way over to the phone and call the cops. He’d managed to quietly lift the receiver off its cradle with his teeth; Jesus, how stupid. What was he going to dial with—his tongue? Anyway, the catburglar caught him, and that’s when things got interesting.

The catburglar positioned himself behind the woman—a trashy, kohl-eyed blonde, my favourite kind to this day—then leaned in close and whispered something I couldn’t hear because I had the set turned down too low. Irritated, I reached for the remote and cranked the volume. 

The burglar roughly yanked the blonde’s panties down to her ankles. The dame squealed, and he slapped her hard across the face. Then, slamming one side of her face forcefully down on the marble countertop, he hitched her nightgown up to her skinny waist, freed himself from his trousers, and proceeded to have his way with her. 

I watched them, awed. The angry, alarmed cries of the cuckolded husband. The pained, humiliated shrieks of the frightened dame. And finally, the self-assured, almost omnipotent gleam in the eyes of the interloper. 

My Ma was quite a religious woman, but until this point I never really grasped what that meant. I had no use for bosses, be they human or divine; the only authority I recognised was my own. Didn’t care much for role models either, because the very idea of a role model implies there’s a person in a superior position to oneself, a person whom you aspire to emulate and onto whom you project your aspirational fantasies; a person in whom you see your idealised self. Frankly, the idea that anyone out there occupied a superior position to me was fucking laughable. However, in that moment—watching that catburglar screw that broad senseless—I believe I recognised a higher power. That fella was powerful, predatory. Someone I could look up to. Someone I could aspire to emulate. I had found myself a role model, a cipher for my projected fantasies. That man may have been a fictional character in a T.V. show, but right then he was my _god._

I was really starting to get into the scene when wouldn’t ya know it, but my Ma came downstairs. “Orin?” she mumbled sleepily as she padded her way into the livingroom in her furry slippers and pink terrycloth robe. “What are you doing up at this hour, sweetie? Come on, go back to—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She’d noticed the scene playing on the tube. A tiny worry crease appeared on her smooth forehead as she frowned and moved closer, squinting through the haze of her tiredness to see what could possibly have her boy so enraptured.

The perplexed look became something graver: horror? Panic? Disgust? I didn’t know—never been all that great at recognising facial expressions, though I can spot fear a mile away. My Ma eventually knelt down beside me and gingerly took the remote from my hands. She switched off the set, and the two of us sat wordlessly side by side, staring straight ahead of us at the blank box. 

“Orin,” my Ma said quietly after a time, still kneeling stiffly by my side and gazing wide-eyed at the tube as though it had her in some kinda trance. 

“Yes, Mama?”

A pause. My Ma pursed her lips. “Did you... _like_ what you were watching just now?” 

Today, when I recall the child-like eagerness with which I responded, I smile fondly, though there were times when I cursed myself for not having been more circumspect. What can I say, I was just a kid, and not a very empathic one at that—I didn’t always know there were some things I was supposed to be shocked and affronted by. So when Mama asked me, “Did you like what you were watching?”, I nodded enthusiastically. 

Another pause. Ma seemed anxious, anxious or thoughtful—again, hard for me to tell. 

“Orin...do you remember when I told you you’d make a wonderful surgeon? Your cool temperament, your calmness under pressure, your lack of squeamishness, your...indifference to human pain?” 

Sure, I remembered that. It was an astute observation. I smiled and nodded. 

“Well...” she seemed tentative. “Well, maybe you could...maybe you could be a...a dentist instead.”

I thought about this. “Would it make you happy if I was a dentist?”

Her grin was wide and slightly manic. “Oh, yes! Yes _indeed,_ Orin. I believe you’d make a wonderful dentist.”

Intriguing, but I was sceptical about her sudden change of heart. “Why?” I asked bluntly. 

She flushed, averting her eyes uneasily. She drew a deep breath “Well...you have a talent, Orin. A talent for dealing with...pain. Being around it. Witnessing it...”

“...causing it?”

The colour drained from her face and she swallowed nervously. “Yes,” she said finally. “That too.”

“What too?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What was the last thing I have a talent for? I wanna hear you say it, Mama. _Say it.”_

“Causing pain, Orin,” she muttered quietly. “You have a talent for causing things pain.”

_That I do, Mama. That I do._

Bless the old gal’s heart. If she hadn’t encouraged me to be a dentist, I could’ve turned to a life of crime instead. Fuck knows there’s a shit-ton of losers with the exact same socially-stigmatised predilections as me who’ve chosen the low road instead. But the low road was never meant for guys like me. I was born for the high life. I was born to dominate. 

Ultimately, I was born to win. 

A man of success needs an equally strong dame, right? Someone who can match him and challenge him. Someone who can look him in the eye and meet him as an equal, yeah? HA! No fuckin’ way. That’s a croc of women’s libber bullshit. A man of success only needs a woman who looks respectable. It doesn’t matter what she _actually_ does for a living; personally, my preferred gals are all whores and strippers. They don’t bother you with their opinions, you can fuck ’em in any hole ya like without once hearing the word “no”, and they won’t bleed you dry with alimony payments if you break up with ’em. Actually, frequenting a strip club for arm-candy is how I met Audrey. 

Sweet, lovely Audrey. All emotional softness, no boundaries. So soft. So vulnerable. So mine. 

She was an exotic dancer at a club when I met her. There she was onstage, swinging around a greasy pole, spreading her legs in a wide V and flashing her kidneys for all the world to see; I get achingly hard just thinking about her. Anyway, she kept making these kissy faces at me through the crowd. I think she enjoyed the fact that I was just smiling at her and being gentlemanly, not trying to paw her tits or feel her up like some of the other losers. 

I blew her a kiss from my table. She pulled this faux-surprised expression as she pretended to catch it in one hand, then winked at me and shyly averted her eyes. I could tell she was real flattered. I knew then that she was mine. I could see it in her eyes: she had just the right amount of brazen sexuality, deep-rooted self-loathing, and a need to abase herself before a powerful male who would rule over her as her lord and master. I found this combination irresistible. 

I approached the podium and motioned for her to lean over; made out like I had something to tell her. With a seductive smile and a coquettish batt of her false lashes, she obediently crouched down and cupped her hand to one ear. Immediately, I seized her by the wrist and pulled so that she fell off the podium and onto my shoulder. I made my way through the crowd carrying the bewildered broad, striding quickly and with purpose. 

“Oh!” she gasped, flustered. “Where are you taking me, Sir?” She broke into a fit a high-pitched giggles. I thought she was probably drunk; now I know that insipid giggling is just an Audrey thing, something she does when she gets nervous. 

“To one of the private booths,” I told her smoothly. 

A giggle. “Why?”

“I’m gonna fuck you, honey.” _Stupid broad._

She gasped then, but I knew she wasn’t as innocent as she made out. I knew she’d probably been fucked in one of those booths before. But here’s the thing, and this is the thing that’s always attracted me to her, the thing that always gets me rock-hard when I think of Audrey: Even after baring her tits and spreading her cheeks and splaying her cunt to countless fellas for cash, there’s a part of her that has remained unspoiled, a kind of tenacious purity that stubbornly resists corruption. This duality—whore on the outside, eternally-blushing ingénue within—is something I’ve never been drawn to from childhood, ever since I watched that burglar fuck that blonde. It’s my dream woman: A dame who knows how to fuck, yet still has the capacity to feel shame about her exploits. The day a broad stops feeling shame—the day she gets all cynical and jaded and lets me do anything to her without so much as a blush, while secretly kvetching to her bitch friends about how all men are assholes—is the day I’ll leave her and seek out fresh blood. 

I don’t think I’ll ever leave Audrey. I’ve tried to defile her for so long, but this dame’s firm grip on purity means she has an equally firm grip on my dick. She can only be debased sexually. Inside, she remains uncontaminated. It’s like this snow dome I once had as a kid: I was so distressed when I accidentally dropped it in a mud puddle. I take real good care of all my possessions. When I saw the thing covered in dark brown sludge, I freaked out big-time. My Ma wiped it clean for me. She told me it wasn’t ruined, it was only mud and mud could be cleaned. I saw she was right. Inside, the little world was protected by the glass—all the dirt and slime couldn’t touch it. Audrey is the same. I clean off her bruises and black-eyes with kisses and make-up. And no matter how dirty I get her on the outside, I know that inside her childlike, whimsical little world is still intact. 

What Audrey and I do in bed isn’t so terribly different to what countless other folks get up to when the lights go out. What _is_ different is my approach. Other fellas feel they have to talk things through: give the missus/mistress an idea of what they wanna get up to, get the all-clear, talk things through, negotiate boundaries, that kinda thing. I don’t do that. Talk is for wimps. Anyways, what’s there to discuss? If she won’t do what you want, ditch the bitch and find one who will. Besides, I like to spring things on Audrey, watch her eyes go wide and her pretty lips form a perfect “O”—a foreshadowing of what they’ll do later when I’m fucking her face. If you discuss your intentions with your dame first, you’ll give her time to get accustomed to the idea, and she’ll be less surprised and ashamed when you do actually slip ’er the salami. ’Course she could always fake being shocked, but feigned shock is a poor substitute for the real deal and it doesn’t get my dick hard. The element of surprise just isn’t something you can simulate. 

“And ashamed” is crucial here. A broad’s shame is an integral part of my sexuality. I need to feel her shame in order to be sexually aroused. This is why I could never rape a woman: aside from the possibility of a lengthy prison sentence if convicted, the dame gets to stay innocent. Emotionally, I mean. Think about it: The poor innocent little dame, an undesiring, frigid virgin, having her precious purity cruelly stolen from her by some rapacious male rapist. The bitch didn’t _agree_ to a defiling of her own free will; some beastly male forced her into it. That’s not how I roll. I want my women to not only agree to their defilement, but to love it, to loathe themselves for loving it, and to be unable resist coming back for more. 

Audrey is insatiable. Sometimes I can barely keep up with her appetites. Her rampant sex drive. Her total self-abasement. Her burning desire to please the man in me, sexually and in all ways. Her bottomless, boundary-less need to nurture me, to love me, to merge with me completely. 

Oh, sweet Audrey. If only such a merging were possible. Alas, my heart only has room for one. 

She has a day-job working in Mushnik’s Flower Shop now. There’s this little dweeb there called Seymour who’s in love with her. It’s cute. When I swing by and Audrey’s not there, I tell the nebbish that our relationship’s on the rocks, feed his crush, make him think he has a chance with her. Yeah, right! Kid’s deluded if he thinks Audrey would ever fall for a pipsqueak like him. Audrey needs a real man, not some pansy-picking pussy. Besides, he’s too nice and Audrey’s too maladjusted. We’re a good fit. 

When I reflect on my life—all the women I’ve fucked, all the children I’ve scared, all the pain I’ve caused and all the folks whose lives have been just that little more miserable because I existed, I sometimes wonder: Do I regret anything I’ve done? And I think about them all: all the children whose mouths will be fucked for life, all the men with irrevocably wounded pride, all the women with black eyes and broken hearts—and the answer is yes. Yes, I do have at least one big burning regret. It may not keep me up at night, but it is something I’ve given thought to and it’s a regret nonetheless. 

It was all too fucking easy.


End file.
